"Wossat?" said the youth, his mouth full of pillow.
For answer, Mr Berry picked him up and flung him at the only other piece of furniture the room possessed, a rickety chest of drawers. This promptly split asunder; the youth sprawled groaning among the fragments.
"Get up," said Mr Berry. "Where's yer manners?"
The youth struggled up, supporting himself on the wall. The fright, on top of what must have been a substantial hangover, had turned his face a distinctive shade of green. He looked blearily at his visitors.
"Who are yer?" he managed to say.
Mrs Holland tutted. "Now then," she said. "What d'you know about Henry Hopkins?"
"Nuffink," said the youth, and Mr Berry hit him. "Gerroff! Ow - leave me alone!"
Mrs Holland took out the diamond pin.
"What about this, then?"
His narrow eyes flicked to it painfully.
"I never seen it in me life," he said, and flinched. But this time Mr Berry merely wagged a finger at him.
"You want to think hard," he said. "You're a disappointment to us, you are."
And then he hit him. The youth fell to his knees, snivelling.
"All right, I found it. I took it to Solly Lieber's and he give me a fiver for it. That's all, honest!" he wailed.
"Where'd you get it?"
"I told you, I found it!"
Mrs Holland sighed. Shaking his head at the stubborn wickedness of human nature, Mr Berry hit him again; and this time the youth lost his temper. He shot across the room like a rat and delved swiftly into the wreckage of the chest of drawers, coming up with a pistol.
His two visitors fell silent.
"You come any closer and I'll b - b - bloody shoot," he said.
"Go on then," said Mr Berry.
"I will! I will!"
Mr Berry reached forward and plucked the gun out of his hand like an apple from a tree. The youth collapsed.
"Shall I hit him again, ma'am?" inquired Mr Berry.
"No! No! Don't hit me!" quavered the youth. "I'll tell yer everything!"
"Hit him anyway," said Mrs Holland, taking the pistol. That formality completed, she went on: "What else did you take from Henry Hopkins?"
"The pin. The shooter," he sobbed. "A couple o' sovereigns. A watch and chain and a silver flask."
"What else?"
"Nothing, ma'am, I swear it."
"No pieces of paper?"
The youth gaped.
"Aha," said Mrs Holland. "Go on, Mr Berry, do as yer like, only leave him with a voice."
"No! No! Please!" cried Ernie Blackett, as Mr Berry raised his fist. "Here y'are - take 'em! Take 'em!"
He scrabbled at a pocket and threw down three or four scraps of paper, and then turned away, shaking. Mrs Holland snatched them up and scanned them while Mr Berry waited.
She looked up. "Is that all? Nothing else?"
"Not a bleedin' thing, I swear it! Honest!"
"Ah, but you ain't honest," said Mrs Holland severely. "That's the trouble. Well, come on, Mr Berry. We'll take the pistol, to remind us of our good friend Henry Hopkins. Deceased."
She hobbled to the door, and waited on the malodorous landing while Mr Berry spoke to their host.
"I don't like to see a young man of your age drinking," he said solemnly. "It's the young man's ruin, drink is. I could tell you was drunk as soon as I come in. The smallest glass of drink is the first step on the road to madness, hallucinations, softening of the brain and moral decay. It breaks your heart to know how many men's lives have been ruined through drink. Keep off it, is my advice. Go and sign the pledge, like I done. You'll be a better man for it. Here -" he fumbled at an inside pocket - "I'll leave you a useful tract, what'll help you improve. It's called The Drunkard's Lament, by One Who Has Seen The Blessed Light."
He tucked the precious document into Ernie Blackett's nerveless hand, and joined Mrs Holland on the stairs.
"That it, Mrs Holland?"
"That's it, Mr Berry. She's cleverer than I took her for, the little bitch."
"Eh?"
"Never mind... Back to Wapping, Mr Berry."
It was well for Ernie Blackett that he had owned up, and given Mrs Holland the pieces of paper. Her next step would have been to tell Mr Berry to search him; and when they were found, Ernie would swiftly have joined Henry Hopkins in that corner of the afterlife reserved for metropolitan minor criminals, where they could have improved their brief acquaintance. As it was, he came quite well out of the transaction, with only two broken ribs, a black eye and a Temperance tract for punishment.
Chapter Twelve
SUBSTITUTION
Just as Mrs Holland and Mr Berry boarded the omnibus back to Wapping, a cab drew up at Hangman's Wharf. Frederick Garland asked the driver to wait, and Mr Bedwell knocked on the door of Holland's Lodgings.
Frederick looked to left and right. The little row of buildings stood just behind Wapping High Street, and seemed to be crowded so close to the river that a slight push would send them in. Holland's Lodgings was the dirtiest and narrowest and most decrepit of them all.
"No reply?" he said, as Mr Bedwell knocked again.
"Lying low, I expect," said the curate, trying the door, and finding it bolted. "This is awkward. What do we do now?"
"Climb in," said Frederick. "We know he's in there, after all."
He was looking up at the side of the building. Between Holland's Lodgings and the house next door a narrow passage a little over two feet in width ran down to the open river, where the masts of boats were clustered. At first-floor level a small window overlooked the passage.
"Can you manage?" said the curate.
"Just keep knocking. Make a row, so no one'll notice what I'm up to."
Frederick had climbed both in Scotland and in Switzerland, and it was the work of a minute to push himself, back against one wall and feet against the other, up the gap between the houses. Opening the window took a little longer, manoeuvring himself through longer still, but eventually he stood on the narrow landing, listening hard.
The curate was still pounding on the front door, but apart from that the house was silent. Frederick ran downstairs and unbolted the door.
"Well done!" said Mr Bedwell, stepping in quickly.
"I can't hear anyone. We'll have to search all the rooms. It looks as if Mrs Holland's out."
They looked quickly in the downstairs rooms and then searched the first floor, but found nothing. They were about to go up to the next when there was a knock on the front door.
They looked at each other.
"Wait here," said the curate.
He ran down swiftly. Frederick listened, pressed against the angle of the landing.
" 'Ow long are you going to keep me?" demanded the cab-driver. " 'Cause I'll have something on account, if you don't mind. This ain't the best part o' London to hang about in."
"Here," said Bedwell. "Take this, and wait by the pavement on the other side of the swingbridge we came over. If we're not out in half an hour, you may go."
He shut the door again and ran back up. Frederick held up a hand.
"Listen," he whispered, pointing. "In there."
They moved up, treading as lightly as possible on the bare boards. A man's voice was murmuring indistinctly behind one of the doors, and they could hear a child saying "Ssh - ssh..." They stood outside the room for a moment. Bedwell was listening intently.
Then he looked at Frederick, and nodded. Frederick opened the door.
The stale smoky reek made them both wrinkle their nostrils. A child - or not so much a child as a pair of wide eyes surrounded by dirt - gazed at them in terror. And on the bed lay the double of the curate.
Bedwell threw himself down and shook his brother by the shoulders. The child backed away silently, and Frederick marvelled at the extraordinary resemblance between the two men. It was not even a resemblance - it was an identity.
Nicholas was trying to lift his brother up, and the other was shaking his head an
d pushing him away.
"Matthew! Matthew!" said the curate. "It's me, it's Nicky! Come on, old man! Snap out of it - open your eyes and look! See who it is!"
But Matthew was in another world. Nicholas let him fall and looked up bitterly.
"Hopeless," he said. "We'll have to carry him."
"Are you Adelaide?" Frederick said to the child.
She nodded.
"Where's Mrs Holland?"
"I dunno," she whispered.
"Is she in?"
Adelaide shook her head.
"Well, that's something at least. Now listen, Adelaide, we're going to take Mr Bedwell away -"
She clung to Matthew at once, her little arms tight around his neck.
"No!" she cried. "She'll kill me!"
And at the sound of her voice, Matthew Bedwell woke up. He sat up and put an arm around her - and then saw his brother, and fell still, speechless.
"It's all right, old fellow," said Nicholas. "I've come to take you home..."
The sailor's eyes moved to Frederick, and Adelaide clung more tightly than ever, whispering, "Please don't go - she'll kill me if you ain't here - she will -"
"Adelaide, we've got to take Mr Bedwell away," said Frederick gently. "He's not well. He can't stay here. Mrs Holland's keeping him here against the law--"
"She said I wasn't to let no one in! She'll kill me!"
The child was nearly distracted with fear, and Matthew Bedwell stroked her hair mechanically, struggling to understand what was happening.
And then the curate held up his hand for silence.
They could hear footsteps and voices from the ground floor; and then a cracked old voice shouted, "Adelaide!"
The child whimpered and shrank towards the wall. Frederick took her arm and said softly, "Is there a back staircase?"
She nodded. He turned to Nicholas Bedwell, and saw that the curate was already on his feet.
"Yes," he said, "I'll go and pretend to be him. I'll keep her busy while you get him out the back way. It's all right, my dear," he said to Adelaide. "She'll never know the difference."
"But she's got--" Adelaide began, intending to say something about Mr Berry; but then the old woman shouted again, and she shrank into silence.
The curate left the room swiftly. They heard him run along the landing and then start down the stairs, and Frederick tugged at Matthew Bedwell. The sailor rose shakily to his feet.
"Come on," said Frederick. "We'll get you out. But you've got to move briskly and keep quiet."
The sailor nodded. "Come on, Adelaide," he mumbled. "Show us the way, girl."
Adelaide whispered, "I daren't."
"You've got to," said Bedwell. "Else I'll be cross. Get a move on."
She scrambled up and ran through the door. Bedwell followed, gathering up a canvas kitbag, and Frederick went after them, pausing to listen. He heard the curate's voice and Mrs Holland's cracked reply; why were they all so afraid of her?
Adelaide led the way down a staircase even narrower and dirtier than the other one. They stopped in the passage on the ground floor. The curate's voice, slurred and roughened, came from somewhere near the front door, and Frederick whispered to the child, "Show us the back way out."
Trembling, she opened the kitchen door, and they went through.
And found themselves face to face with Mr Berry.
He was setting a kettle on the fire. He looked up and gazed at them, and a little frown gathered itself effortfully on his rocky forehead.
Frederick thought quickly.
"How do," he said, nodding. "Which way's the back yard, mate?"
"Out there," said the big man, inclining his head.
Frederick nudged Bedwell, who moved forward with him, and took Adelaide's hand. She came unwillingly. Mr Berry watched dumbly as they walked out of the kitchen, and then sat down to light a pipe.
They found themselves in a dark little yard. Adelaide was clinging to Frederick's hand and, he saw, trembling violently. She had gone white.
"What is it?" he said.
She could not even speak. She was terrified. Frederick looked around; there was a brick wall about six feet in height on one side, and what looked like an alley beyond.
"Bedwell," he said, "jump up and take the girl. Adelaide, you're coming with us. You can't stay here to be frightened like this..."
Bedwell scrambled up, and then Frederick saw that Adelaide's fear was focused on a patch of bare earth by the wall. He hoisted her up to Bedwell, and then scrambled over himself.
Bedwell was swaying, and looking ill. Frederick looked back; he was anxious about the curate, and what would happen when Mrs Holland discovered the truth. But for the moment he had a sick man and a terrified child to look after, and the likelihood of pursuit at any moment.
"Come on," he said. "There's a cab waiting on the other side of the bridge. Let's be off..."
He hurried them out of the alley and away.
Sally, busy with the wording of an advertisement, looked up in surprise as Frederick staggered into the shop half-carrying the unconscious Bedwell. At first she didn't see the child who followed them.
"Mr Bedwell!" she said. "What's happened? Or is it -"
"This is the brother, Sally. Look - I've got to go back straight away. The other half of the family's still there, bluffing it out - but there's a huge ugly bruiser in the house - and I had to take the cab to get these two here - oh, this is Adelaide. She's coming to live with us."
He laid the sailor on the floor and ran out. The cab whirled him away at once.
Much later, he returned. He had the Reverend Nicholas with him, and the parson had a black eye.
"What a fight!" he said. "Sally, you should have seen it! Horatius at the bridge had nothing on it. I got back just in time--"
"He did indeed," said the curate. "But how's Matthew?"
"In bed asleep. But--"
"Is Adelaide all right?" said Frederick. "I couldn't leave her there. She was terrified."
"She's with Trembler. Your eye, Mr Bedwell! It's terribly bruised - come and sit down. Let me look at it. What on earth happened?"
They went through into the kitchen, where Adelaide and Trembler were having some tea. Trembler poured out a cup for each of the men as the curate explained what had taken place.
"I kept her talking while the others left. Then I let her put me back to bed. I pretended to be incoherent. She went out to look for Adelaide and I got up and tried to leave, and that's when she set the big fellow on to me."
"He's a monster," said Frederick. "But you were holding him off. I heard the row from the street outside and just kicked my way in. What a fight!"
"He was strong, but that's all. No speed, no science. Outside in the street, or in the ring, I'd have given him a run for his money, but there wasn't enough space in there; if he'd cornered me, I wouldn't have got out alive."
"What about Mrs Holland?" asked Sally.
The two men looked at each other.
"Well, she had a gun," said Frederick.
"Garland hit the big fellow over the head with a length of wood from the broken banisters, and he went down like an ox. And then Mrs Holland produced her pistol. She'd have shot me, too, if you hadn't knocked it out of her hand," added the clergyman to Frederick.
"A little pearl-handled one," said Frederick. "Does she always carry a pistol?" he asked Adelaide.
"I dunno," the child whispered.
"Anyway, she said ..." he paused, looking unhappy, and then went on to Sally, "she said she'd find you out, wherever you are, and kill you. She told me to tell you. Whether she knows where you are or is just guessing, I've no idea. But she doesn't know who I am or where we live - she can't. You're quite safe here, and so's Adelaide. She'll never find you."
"She will," whispered Adelaide.
"How's she going to do that?" said Trembler. "You're as safe here as the Bank of England. Let me tell you something - I'm on the run meself, just like Miss Sally and you, and I ain't been found ye
t. So you stay here with us, and you'll be all right."
"Are you Miss Lockhart?" said Adelaide to Sally.
"That's right," said Sally.
"She will find me," Adelaide whispered. "If I went to the bottom of the sea she'd find me and drag me out. She would."
"Well, we won't let her," said Sally.
"But she's after you too, ain't she? She said she's going to kill yer. She sent Henry Hopkins to do an accident, only he got killed."
"Henry Hopkins?"
"She told him to steal a bit o' paper off you. And he had to make an accident happen and finish you off."
"That's where she got the pistol from," said Sally weakly. "My pistol..."
" 'S all right," said Trembler, unconvincingly. "She won't find you here, miss."
"She will," said Adelaide again. "She knows everythink. Everythink and everyone. She's got a knife in her bag what she cut the last little girl open with. She showed me. There ain't nothing she don't know, or anyone. All the streets in London and all the ships in the docks. And now I've run away she'll sharpen her knife. She said she would. She's got a stone for sharpenin' it, and a box to put me in, and a place in the yard to bury me. She showed me where I was going to lie when she'd done cutting me up. Her last little girl's lying in the yard. I hates to go out there."
The others were silent. Adelaide's moth-like little voice came to a stop, and she sat hunched over, her eyes on the floor. Trembler reached across the table.
"Here," he said. "Eat yer bun, there's a good girl."
She picked at it for a minute.
"I'll go up and see to my brother," said Bedwell, "if I may."
Sally jumped up. "I'll show you where he is," she said, and took him upstairs.
"Fast asleep," he said when he came out. "I've seen him like this before. He'll probably sleep for twenty-four hours."
"Well, we'll post him on to you when he wakes up," said Frederick. "At least you know where he is. You'll stay the night? Good. My word, I'm hungry. Trembler, what about some kippers? Adelaide, you're going to live with us from now on. You can make yourself useful by finding some cups and plates and things. Sally - she'll need something to wear. There's a secondhand clothes shop around the corner - Trembler'll show you where it is."
The weekend passed quietly. Rosa, after her first astonishment at finding the house full, took to Adelaide at once, and seemed to know all kinds of things that Sally did not: such as how to make Adelaide wash herself, and what time she should go to bed, and how to trim her hair and choose clothes for her. Sally wanted to help; she was full of impulses of kindness, but did not know how to express them, whereas Rosa would hug and kiss the child on impulse, or fluff out her hair, or chat about the theatre; and Trembler told her jokes or taught her card games.